


Horror One Shots (boyxboy)

by Bloody_inspired_by_newtmas



Category: All Time Low, All-American Rejects, Black Veil Brides, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Of Mice & Men (Band), Panic! at the Disco, Pierce the Veil, Sleeping With Sirens, bands - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 08:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6071965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloody_inspired_by_newtmas/pseuds/Bloody_inspired_by_newtmas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of horror one shots. WARNING: These stories do contain graphic depictions of murder, violence, paranormal activity, and some sexual acts. If you are uncomfortable with any of those topics, do not read. I will put warnings before every chapter. </p>
<p>Also posted on Wattpad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frerard

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This one shot contains graphic depictions of murder.

Murder. Cold-blooded, rage-driven, and messy murder. Frank remembered his first kill in vivid detail--it was almost impossible to forget. He was only 14 at the time, barely old enough to know the true beauty behind what he was doing.

He had planned his first victim to be his only victim as he had no reason to kill anyone else. The victim's name was Axle.

Axle was the good boy, a parent's dream. He had good grades, played all different sports, was kind-hearted, straight, and always wore his winning smile. He was the dream child. Frank hated him.

Frank loathed that oh-so-perfect basketball star, and every time he saw him at school, he would glare at him. Of course, Axle took no notice of his hatred. He simply flashed his pretty smile at Frank and continued on his way.

But Frank didn't.

He wanted him dead. He wanted him gone, out of his life, away from the few friends he had. He wanted Axle's family to see him, covered in blood with a knife through his heart, lifeless on the ground. He wanted to watch them cry as they attended his funeral, shedding tears for their lost 'treasure'. And more than anything, he wanted everyone to know exactly why Axle was killed. He wanted them all to see what happened when you ignore the flawed boy, and worship the perfect one. He craved the feeling of being recognized and stared at with fear.

So he came up with a plan to get rid of the pretty boy who haunted his dreams. One night, when all was silent aside from the night animals lurking in the darkest shadows, Frank crept through Axle's window. The stupid boy had left his window unlocked, as he lived in a safe neighborhood and had no enemies. But Frank was his enemy, he just didn't let Axle know.

Once he was safely inside Axle's room, he stared at the sleeping boy. He watched as Axle's chiseled chest moved up and down with every breath he took. Immediately, Frank wanted that breath gone.

He wasted no more time, slipping on the gloves he had taken the precaution of bringing and pulling out his knife. He made sure to have sharpened it before he left, wanting Axle dead as quickly as possible.

With no more hesitation, he quickly stepped towards Axle and plunged the blade into his heart. Blood spewed from the wound, splattering against the bedpost and coating Frank's clothes. He payed no mind to it and instead focussed on Axle's face, watching with pleasure as the boy's eyes snapped opened and he desperately gasped for breath. After a few seconds of struggling and obvious shock, Axle's tense muscles relaxed, his loud gasps were silent, and his wide eyes lost all life. He was dead.

Frank enjoyed the moment, feeling the rush of the kill run through him. The delicate silence of the room was broken as Frank let out a breath of relief, feeling all of his worries dissipate. He no longer had to see Axle's overly cheery face at school. He no longer had to compete with Axle's unbeatable standards and he no longer had to watch all of his classmates fawn over someone who wasn't worth their praise.

But he needed everyone to know that that's why Axle was killed. He needed everyone to know that this was Axle's fault for being so perfect. And he had a perfect way to let them know.

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, removing one cigarette from the box. Lighting it, he brought it to Axle's corpse's forehead and pushed the cigarette against it. He let it burn against the boy's skin, and once it was gone, Frank smiled. He grinned as he gloated over a deed well done.

That was supposed to be Frank's only kill, but not long after it, after enduring the torture of everyone mourning the loss, Frank began to crave the rush of the kill again. He started to physically feel the need to murder another person. He wanted the students at his school dead, especially the ones who kept crying over Axle's death. He wanted to leave the school abandoned with all of the bodies he killed still inside of it.

So he began a hunt. One by one, he would stab the life out of his fellow classmates and burn a cigarette into their foreheads. And he enjoyed it.

Soon, the school closed down, but that didn't stop Frank. He searched for all of the living ex-attendants and made sure they stopped living.

The police were frantically searching for him, but they never could find him. And Frank knew they never would because he was careful. He left nothing but the cigarette behind and he blended in. He pretended to be just as afraid as everyone else and he acted just as upset over their deaths.

He realized, however, that he would be caught if he killed all of his old schoolmates. If they were all dead and he was the only one alive, it was only a matter of time before he was found out. So he switched his victims. He began to kill anyone he could. It didn't matter if they were children, teens, adults, senior citizens. He had no heart to care about them.

But then one came along that wasn't quite like the rest. It was a beautiful teenage boy. Frank had never been physically attracted to anyone before, but this one was different. He had jet black hair which reminded Frank of the feathers on a raven. Glazed hazel eyes peered at Frank with an emotion that the killer was not used to seeing. Normally, there would be fear in his victim's eyes, but not with this boy. Instead, he showed curiosity. It was almost as if he didn't know what Frank was going to do. But Frank was all over the news--on tv, in the newspapers, on billboards for 'Wanted'. Although, they never did say who Frank was because they weren't sure themselves. They just told everyone that there was a serial killer on the loose. But surely, this boy must've known who Frank was.

And that was when Frank did something he never did with any of his previous victims. He spoke to him.

"I'm Frank," he said.

The boy nodded, his lips curled in a toothless smile and his eyes still holding that curiosity, "I know."

"Why aren't you scared?" The killer asked.

The boy seemed amused for a moment, pausing to think before answering, "Because I have nothing left to lose."

Frank was puzzled. What did that mean? Surely this boy couldn't want the fate that Frank had sealed for him. At least, none of his other victims did.

"Who are you?" Inquired the shorter boy.

"Gerard," the black-haired teenager replied.

"Well, Gerard, do you know why I'm here?"

Gerard nodded, "Yes, you are going to kill me. But that's okay. I don't mind."

"Y-you don't mind?"

"No," Gerard said simply. "Do it."

"I-I..." Frank stuttered, at a complete loss of words. Gerard certainly wasn't like the others--whining, begging, pleading for his life. He didn't try to negotiate or offer money in exchange for survival. He didn't struggle and try to run away. He simply stared. It was slightly unnerving.

"Do it. Please, kill me. Stab me right in the heart and burn a cigarette into my forehead. Make me a martyr."

So Frank obeyed. He wordlessly pulled on his gloves and repeated the process that he did with everyone else. Stab, light, burn, leave.

This time, though, he felt something other than pleasure while doing it. This time, he felt agony and remorse. As he stared into Gerard's beautiful lifeless eyes, he was overcome with grief. He felt it like a fist to his stomach, throwing an ache and nausea to his body that he had never felt before. Confusion, sadness, and self-loathing overwhelmed him and he began to cry. He wept mercilessly, hot tears flowing down his face as he began to experience something that he had never felt before: regret.

Still silently sobbing, Frank took Gerard's arms and gently crossed them over the corpse's chest, attempting to show some respect for the dead teenager. It was his gift to Gerard--his way of saying rest in peace.

He slowly crept out of Gerard's bedroom window again, glancing once more at the body that still lay in his bed. Dead.

That's the last time that Frank ever killed.


	2. Kellic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Graphic depictions of murder and violence.

"What do you remember of that night?"

"W-what do you mean?"

"The night that has been haunting you since it happened. You always give me vague details, but I can't help you unless I know exactly what happened."

"O-Okay. I'll, um, I'll tell you in full detail if you pr-promise me something...."

"Of course, what is it?"

"Never tell another living soul."

"I promise."

"O-Okay. I remember...

I jolted awake from the nightmare I had, sweat beading on my forehead as I shook in terror. It was my sister Lucy. She had been lying in bed, pretending to sleep as she awaited the arrival of her secret boyfriend.

"I knew about her boyfriend...Lucy and I never kept secrets from each other.

"There had been a tap on her window, which was obviously her boyfriend. She excitedly skipped over to it and silently opened it for him to climb inside. He smiled at her, leaning down to kiss her passionately. She giggled in between kisses.

"She had been wearing the perfume that I got her for her birthday that year. I could smell it in the dream.

"He grabbed her hands and led her to her bed, whispering in her ear, 'I will never forget this night.' She had smiled at him, moving down to kiss his neck. He had lain her down on the bed and positioned himself on top of her. She smirked at him, but he returned it with a devilish grin. He raised his hand above his head, and suddenly a knife appeared in his grasp. He thrust his arm down, stabbing her over and over until they were both coated in blood. Then he had smiled and whispered, 'You were my first.'

"When I awoke from the dream, I had obviously felt very shaken up. So I went downstairs to get a glass of water. I got out of bed and walked down the hallway. As I descended down the stairs, I heard a strange noise. It was almost a...crashing sound. My father worked the night shift at the hospital, so I thought it was probably just him leaving for work and I ignored it.

"I shouldn't have ignored it.

"I continued downstairs and into the kitchen. I drank my water and headed back upstairs, like I did every time I had a nightmare. This one wasn't like the other nightmares I had though. This was far too real. As I reached my room, I heard another sound. This one wasn't a crash. This one was far, far worse. This....I heard blood curdling screams coming from Lucy's room. I rushed over to her room as quickly as I could, ready to comfort her from whatever nightmare she had had.

I opened her door, running in to help her. But I stopped in my tracks. There she was, still in bed and unmoving. But she wasn't asleep....she was dead. She had a knife in her heart, and many stab wounds littering her stomach and chest. I looked to where the window was in her room, seeing it still open from when her boyfriend entered."

"Oh....my....god, Kellin. When was this? Are you alright? Have you told anyone?" My therapist, Vic, frantically asked, running his hand through his hair.

"Well, my parents knew obviously. They had heard the screams as well. But no one else knows....it happened 2 months ago."

"And, um, did you have a funeral? You know, to rest her soul," Vic seemed a bit too curious for my liking. I shook my head, deciding to be truthful.

"No, she's still in her bed."

"St-still in her bed? Kellin, you have to bury her." I smiled psychopathically.

"If she remains in her bed, I like to think that she is still alive. It helps...calm my mind."

"Yes, but tha-that's just not right. Kellin, you must bury her," Vic told me, authority suddenly showing in his voice.

"Well, what's it to you? You didn't even know her!" I argued. I was beginning to grow weary of his shit. He constantly said that 'he was just there to listen' but he would always make suggestions on how I should live my life. If I want my dead sister to remain in her bed, so be it.

"I'm just saying that, not only is that creepy, but an autopsy and forensics will help catch whoever killed her. And besides, it will begin to smell."

I was appalled. Why would I want to give up my sister as a lab experiment? Why would I want to give her up simply because of the smell? I couldn't do that. Vic was insane.

"No! I will not let her be taken away by scientists. She's MY sister and I will do what I want with her!"

"It's not right and--"

"Why should you care?!" I screamed, standing up and pointing my finger at him. I didn't like him meddling with my life.

"Because I was the one who killed her!" He exclaimed, but immediately seemed to regret his decision to say that out loud.

I did not give him a second to recover. Instead, I lunged forward. "You son of a bitch!" I yelled, grabbing the first thing I saw that could be used as a weapon. It happened to be a pair of scissors.

All I saw was red. It clouded my vision as rage took control of my body. I was only barely aware of what I was doing.

I tackled Vic to the ground, pinning his arms above his head. Using my fists, I punched him over and over in the face before, with all of my strength, I stomped on both of his hands, instantly breaking them.

Blood poured out of his nose, but I wasn't satisfied. I knew that no matter how much damage I did, nothing could fully avenge my sister's death. All I could see was her dead corpse staring at me, lifeless eyes gazing into mine as if she was asking why I didn't help her. I remembered everything I saw in the dream; her boyfriend making out with her. I now knew it wasn't her boyfriend. Vic must've snuck into her room and nearly raped her before killing her.

Thinking of Lucy being raped, by a therapist at that, filled me with a new kind of anger. It boiled my blood and soon I lost any control I had. Taking the scissors in my hand, I thrust them into his chest before opening them to stretch the wound. He screamed out in pain, but I didn't care. It was music to my ears as I remembered how she screamed. I ripped the scissors out of his chest before stabbing them into him again. Over and over, I pounded him with the scissors. Even when I saw all the life leave his eyes, even as his breathing stilled, even as his muscles relaxed I still kept beating him. Finally, I felt as if I had avenged her death.

Rest in peace, Lucy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so short.


	3. Cashby

Austin's POV

When I was younger, I was afraid of needles. I didn't have a reason why they scared me, but I guess every kid has his fears. I didn't believe in monsters in my closet, ghosts in my house, serial killers breaking in, or any of the normal fears that boys my age had. I didn't mind heights. I wasn't afraid of spiders. Snakes were cool to me. However, I couldn't even look at a needle without bursting into tears and screaming for my mommy.

At six, I was given my first flu shot. I remember it so clearly now, and what I would give if I could just go back to that day. I had been wearing my favorite Spiderman pajamas, as I claimed that if I had to get a shot, I had an excuse not to get dressed. These pajamas were a matching pair of shirt and pants which mirrored Spiderman's costume. It included Spiderman slippers, but I didn't wear them that day because I was a big boy who didn't wear slippers. I thought that slippers were for babies. All of the nurses complimented me on my outfit. They said that the flu shot would make me a hero. They lied.

At eight, I received a tetanus shot. I had been playing in my mother's newly finished garden, searching for a ripe squash to pick, when I stepped on a rusty nail. I don't think my family realized the air capacity of my lungs until they heard me scream that day. There was a nail in my foot, blood coating the wound, and I was screaming bloody murder. What do you expect from an eight-year-old. My father scooped me up, carefully nurturing my foot as he calmly carried me to the car and drove me to the hospital. When I heard the word "shot" from the doctor, I was ready to deal with whatever consequences came with the wound. I would've done anything to avoid that needle, but my dad held my wriggling limbs down as they shot what felt like venom into my body. They had said it would make me better. It didn't. 

At eleven, I got blood taken. My mom had told me that I needed to be tested for, well, I don't really know. I hadn't been listening to her while she was speaking. All I heard was that there would be a needle involved and I immediately started crying. Yes, I was eleven and yes, I was crying, but I had to. It was my worst fear. The nurse was calm and smiling, but I envisioned her as a vampire, sticking me with her fangs and sucking up all of my blood. I thought that I was going to die, that they were going to take all of my blood and leave me with nothing but a skin-covered skeleton. They tested my blood and said that I was completely normal. I wasn't.

At sixteen, I was shot up with a sedative. I had been playing basketball with a couple kids from school when one of my classmates, who despised me, accused me of stealing his friends. I had no clue what he was talking about, but that was okay because we didn't do much more talking. He threw the first punch, and that was the only thing he did in that fight. At the first sign of physical pain, I snapped. I retaliated a hundred fold with an attack of my own. It wasn't just punches and kicks, either. Anything I could get my hands on, I beat him with: a basketball, a stick, a nearby tennis racket. A crowd had surrounded us by then, but they didn't do anything to stop me. Soon enough, it caught the attention of our PE teacher, Mr. Scottis. Scottis tried to pull me off of him, but I simply turned around and kicked him with enough force to knock him out. Another teacher saw this, but I don't remember who it was. She must've dialed 911, as soon I had more than three police officers pulling me off of this kid. I didn't surrender. I fought and fought until, eventually, they were able to put me in handcuffs. I was brought to the police station, but I had broken my hand sometime in the fight. They took me to the infirmary, but they were going to put an IV in my arm. I don't know why they were going to do that, but as soon as I saw that needle, I lashed out. I broke whatever I could get my hands on, and I even tried to hurt the nurse. Someone, I still don't know who, came up from behind me and stuck a sedative into my arm. When I woke up, they said that I was mentally ill and that they were going to get me help. They didn't.

At eighteen, I was given another flu shot just before I was released from juvie. This one didn't fill my head with nightmares, and honestly I don't remember it that well. It's after I left juvie that I entered hell.

I wasn't like other teenagers my age. I didn't get drunk or go to parties, and I didn't fuck lots of girls and do drugs. I wasn't into smoking and dance music made me want to throw up. Instead, I would paint. I liked painting on white walls. They were like a canvas for me to spill my life onto. Most people didn't appreciate them, they said that it was weird and gross, but I liked it. I thought it was pretty.

My parents hadn't said a word to me since I was released. I don't know why they never spoke to me; maybe they were ashamed of what I had done. Maybe they didn't want to associate with the kid that went to jail. Maybe they just never got around to it. I don't know if they ever will speak to me. It's been two years and I haven't heard a peep from them.

My friends must've forgotten about me because I haven't heard from them either. I don't know what they think of me, but they seem to hate me. Maybe they're scared. Maybe they're indifferent.

I still paint the walls. I think it's a nice activity to forget about...well, everything. It took me away from the hellish reality that was my life. It was like creating a new story with different characters who all have happier lives. The people in these stories have parents who love them, friends who would never leave them, and no one is a stranger to them.

I don't know anyone in my life. Everyone is someone new. People come in and out but they never stay long enough to tell me their names. Everyone is so busy, so fast, so forgetful. They speak in whispers here and there, but they are so caught up in their lives that they don't think to notice the weird kid with red paint under his fingernails. Well, that was the case for everyone except one kid.

He was nineteen when I was twenty. He had hair that reminded me of a fluffy orange kitten, he only wore one shirt, and his name was Alan. I don't know much about Alan's life; his past, his hopes, his aspirations. I really only know his name and a few of his interests, but that's enough for me. Alan and I are friends.

One thing I knew about Alan was that he hated being blindfolded. He didn't like the thought of not being able to see where he was going or what he was doing. He wanted to be fully aware of what was happening around him, and that was fine by me. He often stared at random things in the room, scrutinizing every detail for later analysis. I thought he was strange, but I liked him. I still like him.

Alan and I liked to go places together. We liked going on walks, letting our feet take us wherever they wanted. We often held hands, but we never discussed why we did this.

That is what we are doing now. I grasp his hand firmly as we amble down the dimly lit street, not speaking a word to each other as we went. It is peaceful, just observing the way the faint streetlights reflect off of the damp blacktop. A calming, fall breeze sweeps over us, blowing Alan's fiery hair into his face. I turn my head for one second to watch his locks tousle, and when I turn around, I don't recognize where we are. Of course, I know what this place is, but I have no idea where it is or how we got here. It is not often that you find yourself wandering into a cemetery.

Alan breaths out lightly, "So many dead people," he whispers. It almost feels sacrilegious to break the silence of this place. A eerie sense of foreshadowing creeps up my spine and I have the sudden urge to run from this place and forget that I ever entered that cemetery. But Alan says something before I can go, "In loving memory of Jeanine and Michael Carlile?" His tone is questioning, and I turn, my gaze following his to the tombstone that caught his attention. At first, I think it's just a coincidence that these people have the same last name as I have. But then I read their tombstone and the dates at which they lived and died.

Jeanine Carlile: 1963-1999

Michael Carlile: 1961-1999

It is 2001. It has been two years since I have seen my parents. I was released from juvie in 1999. Suddenly, like a tidal wave, it all comes crashing down on me. I remember.

That look of pure horror on her face as her son, her baby boy who used to scream for her when he was getting a shot, was approaching her with a needle. This wasn't a flu shot. Her eyes widened in terror as he stuck that needle into her neck. "Austin," she breathed out, before she collapsed onto the ground, eyes unfocussed and limbs unmoving.

That fear in his eyes as he witnessed his son, his loving boy who he carried to the hospital for a tetanus shot, was now turning to him with that needle that just killed his wife. "Austin, you were just released from juvie. Is this really what you want?" He asked.

"No," Austin answered, "this is what you made me do." He plunged the needle into his father Adam's apple.

All the memories come flooding back, all of the people I killed. Betty Moran, Alisha Cornish, Dylan Karkan, Victor Fuentes, Pete Wentz, Abigail Druis. All of the friends I used to hang out with and love were all dead...because of me. I killed them.

I turned to Alan.

Those paintings on the wall were red, but they were not paint.

Those walls I painted on were white, but that's because too much color stimulated other patients too much.

My parents didn't hate me, they weren't disgusted with me, they were dead.

I killed them. I killed them all. And I don't regret it.

As I looked into Alan's eyes, I saw a potential victim. I saw someone that I could add to these cemetery floors. I saw someone I could add to my résumé.

But as he looked back as me, I saw someone who was not afraid to be a notch in the belt. I saw someone who would willingly die. I saw someone who didn't fear death.

So I didn't kill him. I took off my jacket, walked behind him, and placed it over his eyes. After tying it in the back, I got close to his ear and whispered, "We all have to face our fears."

 

 

At nineteen, I gave my first needle. It wasn't anything helpful like a vaccine or something, but rather something deadly. I shot my mother up with it, killing her instantly. I was never the same again, killing both compulsively and impulsively. There was only one boy who got away; the boy with fiery hair. Two years later, I received news that Alan Ashby had gone blind.


	4. Frerard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Graphic depiction of murder (what else is new) and possible religious controversy

Gerard's POV

Perfection -- the condition, state, or quality of being free or as free as possible from all flaws or defects.

Those were the words by which I lived my life. I had perfect hair, combed with the precision of a ballpoint pen, never a strand out of place, always slicked back, and never discolored. My mouth was adorned by perfect teeth, so straight it was as if all of the artists of old had been resurrected to shape my mouth. They were as white as freshly fallen snow, and perfectly sized. My body was perfect; a vision of beauty. Chiseled muscles peeked out from behind fashionable clothes, protruding tastefully in their tanned skin casing. I was the perfect size, a necessary height for all activities and opportunities, but not so tall as to be unhealthy. I was perfect in my speech and vocabulary, never struggling to find a word to fit a situation, never stuttering or stumbling over previous words, and always painting a picture of vivid beauty. I had a perfect brain, my intelligence unparalleled by Albert Einstein himself. I was perfect in terms of savings, superfluous in money and never in financial debt, always calling up the exact amount of cash necessary. I was skilled and well versed in every career of which you can think. And yet, as perfect as I was, no man can escape from the tomb he seals the very moment he is born. I was no exception.

In 1996, I, Gerard Arthur Way, met a tragic end on the carpet of the ocean floor, weighed down by my vehicle and my anchor of fear. I imagine my body decomposed or was digested by some creature fairly quickly, but I cannot know for sure. Perhaps that corpse I used to live in is still there, rotting like a log beneath the waves in which children play every day. I have no knowledge of what became of my physical self, nor do I necessarily care.

You see, they say that life changes a person, and I suppose in some minor ways they would be correct. Life can change details; things that don't really matter such as whom you marry, what career you choose, and how you die. However, in the long run, they would be sorely mistaken. Life changes a few aspects of a person's personality and insight, but nothing transforms a person the way death does. I could not be more different now than I was in life, and in the first moments of the afterlife, I cast away the shadow that perfection seems to be and I instead assumed the form of an imperfect being. I became a completely different person.

Metamorphosis -- a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one, by natural or supernatural means

 

Perhaps I should not use the word change. Change is a dangerous word. It deceives one to think that an aspect of a person's being or world is simply altered. It twists the very law under which ghosts comply: never modify yourself, otherwise you'll become too much like the living. Death is not a change. Death is a metamorphosis. In death, one can emerge from the shell of bleak and undetermined personality that shrouds him in life, and be born into a world of certainty. In life, I was absolutely perfect, a marble sculpture with no flaws nor cracks upon the surface. In death, I am better. I am perfectly imperfect; a wave of broken tides and staggered sunsets.

 

I wear unwashed hair, hanging unruly and tangled in my pale, ghosted face. My teeth are crooked and stained, like a light hammer had been taken to those pearly whites before they were left to rot. My body, although not overweight, is nowhere near fit and the tan has faded until I am almost a canvas on which even the lightest of colors would appear. I am short, shrunken bones retracted like cat claws back into my skin. I speak brokenly, halting in mid-sentence, stuttering over long words, and scrambling to find the perfect term. Money I have no need for, but if I did, I would be severely in debt. I am imperfect.

Of course, my imperfection does nothing to impede my love for the perfect. My eye for glamor has remained unchanged as I stare tirelessly at the person who has consumed my attention since the day my eyes first visualized him. He is pale, but not the way I am. His skin appears to be a milky contour which contrasts beautifully the dark ink which decorates his body. His black-rimmed eyes hold memories and stories like constant tears threatening to spill down his porcelain cheeks. His short and teen-like stature increased his attractiveness in my eyes. His hair framed his face with two different colors, a white trimming on either side of his head and a black arrow directing immediate attention to his beautiful face. Yes, this boy is perfect.

In life, I was an honest and selfless man, putting complete strangers' wants and needs before my own. However, like I mentioned, death transformed me. I am a dishonest and selfish man, and now that I have an object of interest, I will have it. His name is Frank.

On Earth, I can be visible or transparent depending on what I choose to be, but I find it to be most useful to remain invisible as I can keep tabs on my person of concern. As of now, I am the unseen spectator of a tragic scene which I plan to use to my advantage.

"...Lisa," his quiet, gentle voice whispers. His tone sounds as broken as I knew his heart was as he watched his fiancé undress in front of another man. A sacred act, one which he swore he would only do with her, she was now beginning with another man. She, a woman I had come to know from afar due to all the time I spent studying Frank, is called Lisa. I had been there when Frank worked himself up over possibly proposing to her. I had been there when he asked her father for permission for his daughter's hand in marriage. I had been there when he and his friend Ray went shopping for the perfect ring. I had been there when Frank proposed to Lisa. I had been there when the two started making wedding arrangements. Yes, it broke my heart to watch the man I pined over be in love with someone else, but I had to make sure things went correctly. So far, everything is going just as planned. She had taken the bait, just like I had arranged.

"Frank, it's, um, it's not what it--"

"Looks like?" Frank finishes for her. "Yeah, I think it is. It looks like you were about to have sex with Mikey, who happens to be my best friend."

Ah, Mikey is such a devoted brother; so willing to do whatever I say. I told him to seduce Lisa because I knew she'd fall for it. She was just too easy. She did her part perfectly, though. She made Frank fall in love with her, a match I am quite proud to say that I made. She said yes to his proposal, although everyone but Frank knew she had slept with almost every other man in the vicinity. She played the role of a loving girlfriend, but we all knew that was only because Frank has money. Now, she cheated on him right in front of him, as if she knew that I had written this whole script. After all, who is a better shoulder to cry on than a stranger?

"Yes, but he came onto me, I don't--" She stumbles to defend herself, but I can tell that she's only defending that expensive ring on her finger.

"You don't what? You don't want me? Is that it? You don't love me?" Frank yells at her as Mikey struggles to pull on his pants. Poor kid. If only I could do something to help him.

"No, I do! Trust me, Frank, I do love you. I just, um," Lisa stutters out nonsensical words. Even a deaf man could hear the lies in her words.

"You know, this whole time, I really thought we had something! I thought I could be happy with you. Now, you're making me feel like an idiot. I come here to find you cheating on me with my best friend? Is there anyone else? Have you been cheating this whole time?"

Frank's confusion is understandable, although it is difficult to believe that an intelligent man such as Frank could have ever bought into the obvious falsehoods that she fed to him every day.

"I--" she sighs, letting out a pent up breath and following it up with secrets that she had been hiding for their whole relationship. "I never really loved you, Frank. I tried to, believe me, I did. But I just...I fell in love with the idea of you. I fell in love with the fact that you loved me because that's something I've never had before. I liked the thought that someone could love me, but I'm not the romantic type. I'm not the type to fall in love. I don't know what it feels like to love because I never received it in my past. Yes, I have been cheating this whole time. I'm sorry, Frank."

Well, she did a stunning job making lewd behavior and a disgusting nature sound like a cry for help. It's fascinating how the villain tries to play the victim. Thankfully, Frank isn't stupid enough to fall for the guilt trip.

Frank connected his eyes with hers, a bloody battle of emotions raging between the two of them before he dramatically lifted his left hand and yanked his engagement ring off of his finger. "Good luck finding another idiot who will make the same mistake I did," he spat. Without another word, he stormed out of the apartment and onto the streets marked with Winter's white ink.

I took that as my cue as I silently followed after him, unbeknownst to him. So far my plan has played out without a single mishap.

Frank's hands were shoved into his pockets, balled up into fists as if he were imagining what punching her would feel like. I couldn't blame him for that; if this were not part of my plan, I would've already killed her for the immense amount of emotional distress she was causing for my poor Frank.

I studied his tense stature as he sighed and swiped a cigarette from his coat pocket, breathing in a long drag and visibly relaxing. It was almost sinful how beautiful he looked, sucking in the chemicals, hollowing his cheeks, and letting it dissipate into the air. The poison stick appeared so natural in his hand, so comfortable and casual like he had grown up with it between his fingers. I always envied the normality of smoking--something that I had always wanted to do in life but was too innocent to try. It was therapeutic to watch him.

"Why do I always choose the wrong ones?" Frank whispered to himself. He turned his head to the side, and the distinct glimmer of freshly fallen tears on his cheeks reflected the street lamps.

I frowned, knowing that I could fix his problems. I could wipe those tears from his face and keep them out of his eyes. I could mend his shattered heart. I could piece his broken life back together.

But what of me? I am a restless soul, bound to the fate that had already befallen me, destined for nothing else. I am a hardened heart, closed to the possibility of a happy afterlife, chained to the misery of wretched nothingness. Frank was my outlet, my escape to a brighter darkness, and what reason have I to decline that? I could close the veins leading to the heart of his pain, remove the thorns that troubled him, but he would have no need to meet me. I would have no excuse to enter his life; therefore, I would remain out of it. It is either his life or the redemption of mine. What choice do I have?

I hurried to overtake him, to get ahead of him so that I could be waiting for him when we finally meet. Silently, I seated myself on a bench beneath a gnarled tree in a park that required serious renovation. And I waited.

Patiently, I sat beneath branches so black in the night that they seemed to be coated in a thick layer of tar. I felt the cool air brush against my dead body, like a friendly whisper into sensitive ears. The night was silent as a cemetery, as if it were sacrilegious to make a sound on such a momentous night. Yes, tonight would be momentous. Frank would finally be mine.

The fragile quiet was shattered by the distinct sound of footsteps that I knew belonged to Frank. His outline appeared in the distance, shrouded by inky darkness. I shimmered, my transparency falling into an abyss of visibility as I came into view.

As Frank drew nearer, I prepared myself for what was to come. I knew it would not be easy to obtain my beautiful boy, and I knew that my possessiveness over him would probably scare him. I knew that rejection was the most likely response to the general creepiness of my obsession. But I knew how I would react. I knew what I had to do and I was going to do it whether or not it was welcome.

Suddenly, and almost before I was prepared, Frank was upon me. His perfect figure was directly in my line of sight and, for the first time, he could consciously see and notice me. He could take in my pale features and compare them to his own. His soft flesh could brush lightly again my cold skin and his beautiful eyes could meet mine.

But they did not.

Whether the darkness disguised me or if his eyes were too clouded with tears, I am not sure. But he never even spared me a glance. His head did not turn to face me, his ears did not listen to the gentle noise of my breathing. He did not acknowledge the fact that I existed.

And I resented that.

How could the man that I pined over neglect to see me? How could the person that I would do practically anything for not even notice me waiting for him? Was he so wrapped up in the scum unworthy of his attention who cheated on him that he could not envision the perfect match for him?

I wanted his attention. I needed his attention. I craved him.

So, with one goal in my mind, I strode towards him. Any words of comfort that I had previous planned to coax him into the fate that I had prepared for him left my mind. Any tissues I had in my pocket to dry his wasted tears had been shredded. Any awareness of my actions in my mind had gone, and my intent was sealed.

I grabbed his shoulder, my bony fingers grasping his structured skeleton as I reached through his skin and into his natural form.

"What the fuck?" He yelled as he whipped around, unprepared to find a corpse's hand phased through his flesh. "Who the hell are you?"

I almost laughed at the irony of his question. Who am I? "I am the one who designed your life! I sketched your meeting with that whore you planned to marry. I picked that ring you slipped onto her finger. I stripped her of her dignity as I tempted her into cheating on you. And you know what, Frankie boy? I don't regret it."

"You son of a bi--"

"No need to bring my mother into it, Frankie boy. Now, we can either do this the easy way or the hard way. Either you can come with me willingly and quietly, or I can force you to come with me and the police can search desperately for a man who doesn't exist."

His face blanched, white fear painted upon his already pale skin, "I-I'm not coming with you. Regardless of your--"

"Alright," I complied, "we'll do it the hard way." With that, I recoiled my arm and plunged it into his chest, twisting my gnarled fingers between his ribs as I searched for his heart. He screamed. Blood poured from the hole I made in his torso as I moved my hand inside of him. After ten seconds of pure agony for my Frankie, I found it. 

Nestled on the left side of his body, his heart pounded furiously inside of his chest before I grasped it. He screamed louder. I gripped firmly before locking eyes with him and, without hesitation, ripping his heart from his body. I felt the veins and arteries snapping as the vital muscle was disconnected from his body. Pure pain was carved upon his face like an eternal message. Then he dropped to the ground. Dead.

I blinked. Perfect.

Suddenly, I was transported to a bleak and boiling place. Dark clouds swirled in the sky and shrieking laughter was beating in my ears. 

A deep, grumbling voice could be heard from the distance saying, "Betcha thought you had him. Betcha thought the afterlife could be okay. Hell will never be okay."

I looked around to find an empty plain. There was no sign of life, no plant growing from the ground, no human nor animal nor evidence of anything ever living here. Hell is always described as fiery and full of sin, like that is what most people fear. But no, hell is nothing like that. Hell is your biggest fear played on repeat. Hell is the epitome of all emptiness and anger you have ever felt. Hell is the absence of perfection. Hell is a place you go when you kill the one you are supposed to love. Hell can be described with the scariest word in the English language.

Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally everything in this one-shot has some sort of deep meaning so that’s why it’s so crap


End file.
